


You Must Remember Your Name

by broi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Blood Kink, Breathplay, Choking, Consensual, Consensual Thramsay, D/s, Daddy Issues, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Knifeplay, M/M, Nah Ram is ok really, Past Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Ramsay is his own warning, hints at past Rameric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 03:56:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10756218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broi/pseuds/broi
Summary: Theon has not been at the Dreadfort long. Ramsay would like to keep him there.As it turns out, Theon would rather like to stay.Filthy, sexy Consensual!Thramsay wherein Ramsay doesn't really know how to deal.





	You Must Remember Your Name

**Author's Note:**

> Jumping on the Bloodied Up! bandwagon because, well. Read it and see. If you haven't done so already, you MUST. It is an AU belonging to the supremely talented LelithSugar. Please can someone tell me how to make her name into a hyperlink. Now, I hate AUs as a rule, but between her and emmaliza I am converted. Anyway, the premise of Bloodied Up! is one whereby all those cock-chopping, teeth-ripping, finger-flaying shenanigans that Ramsay gets up to with Theon is actually an elaborate cover-up allowing them to exist hidden in plain sight, doing all their pervert things and living out a perfect D/s, BDSM sunshine, lollipops and rainbows existence. If that doesn't sound like fun, then go boil your head. 
> 
> (This is near the beginning of Theon and Ramsay's exploration of whatever the fuck this is.)

Nobody had ever begged to be strung to the cross before. 

A curious thing, this little squid from Pyke. If he supposes to fashion some ludicrous escape plan by beguiling Ramsay into the belief that he actually enjoys the discomfort, he’ll be in for a nasty surprise. Then again, he’d offered his exceptionally tight arse several times now, and other parts besides, and Ramsay never was one to turn down a good meal. And what can this pathetic creature do to Ramsay Bolton now, chained as he is? _Nothing._ Just as is his own worth to his drowned rat father: _nothing._

On the table in front of the cross, illuminated in the firelight, a plate of half-eaten chicken sits discarded next to a goblet of something sweet and dark, which Ramsay drains to chase away the last chews of meat. On the bone is best; the rest of it is a waste of time. It’s so _bland._ No challenge there at all. Ramsay leans his chair back on two legs, swings one boot atop the other on the table.

“ _Reek._ ” 

He’d better know not to answer, because Ramsay isn’t asking a question. He’s testing out the flavour of the word, savouring it. He snarls out the vowels, finishing with a flash of bared teeth in the candlelight, and from the cross echoes a gasp. Ramsay sets the goblet on the table and smirks. Tastes better than the fucking chicken, that name.

There’s another name, too. _Theon Greyjoy_. Ramsay had heard a lot about the man who owned that name. A fearsome reaver, some said. A warrior; a pitiable boy; an Ironborn Prince; a Stark whore; a turncloak; a craven; a cunt. _You should hear what they say about me,_ Ramsay had said, that first night. He’d drained his wine into Theon Greyjoy’s cup, passed it to his trembling hand. “ _So tell me, Theon Greyjoy. Tell me which you are._ ”

_”I wish I fucking knew.”_

Ramsay had only meant to get his end away that night. He hadn’t planned on Theon being so interesting. It was clear from the start that Theon would have a willing mouth – most do, with a knife pressed at their throat and a belt round their wrists – but the rest of it had come as something of an intriguing surprise. Such ragged, hard screams. Such a staggering tolerance of pain. And he _wanted it,_ again and again and again, until he lay on the flagstones next to Ramsay’s bed, a broken and discarded doll, covered in blood and sweat and seed and dirt. And yet, it still hadn’t been enough.

_”Again? Later? Tomorrow?”_

_”Theon. You fucking stink.”_

_”Don’t you want me to smell of you?”_ A pause. Theon captures Ramsay’s eyes. _”This is what I am. What I deserve to be. Don’t make me wash. Let me stay here.”_

And then came the questions, as Ramsay supposed they would. And in a way, they brought with them their own amusement, which again was surprising. He had thought they would be exceptionally tiresome.

 _“What d'you do to ‘im, m’lord?”_

_”Whatever I want.”_

_”They say you’ve fucked the Ironborn out of ‘im. They say he don't know who he is anymore.”_

_”On the contrary, Damon. He knows exactly who he is.”_

It had taken Theon a week to beg for the cross. By rights, given the depravity of their days thus far, Ramsay should not have been surprised. Yet, there he was: surprised. 

Ramsay is not used to the concept of surprise.

Theon’s wrists still bore the reddish-purple dents from when Ramsay had used the belt to string him up across the bedframe, before smacking a new shade of crimson into his back with Theon’s own fucking leather gauntlet. One of the strokes even left a little imprint of a kraken just above Theon’s left arse cheek, which disappeared disappointingly quickly under the assault of Ramsay’s tongue and lips. It was only natural that the next progression would be complete surrender, arms and legs spread, nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

“Nowhere to hide on the cross, my Reek.” Ramsay’s chair balances on its rear legs, but there is nothing precarious about his position. His favourite flaying knife, the one with the boned handle, rests in perfect balance in his fleshy palm. He lifts it to his eyeline, peers first down the hilt and then the blade, squeezing one eye shut, and focuses the tip on the tiny dip in Theon’s clavicle, halfway across the room. He’s shirtless, gleaming with sweat in the firelight, but Ramsay has made him leave his breeches on so that his cock aches. “Nowhere to hide. Not even behind that noble name of yours.” He snorts. “If your father could see you now.”

“Ramsay—”

The chair hits the floor in a clatter and Ramsay is on him. “You asked for this. You _begged_ for it. And that means all of it. A Bolton cross is more than just some frame to hang a shit like you. Understand?”

Theon’s breath shudders. “I understand.”

“If you don’t, you will soon.” The slow smile tastes fucking gorgeous on Ramsay’s lips as he drinks in the sight of Theon’s widening eyes. _He’s just started to feel the blade press into his ribs._ That steady, careful increase of pressure is one of Ramsay’s greatest talents. From nothing to everything, to agony, without even a mere realisation it is happening, until it is all-consuming.

Ramsay had boiled a boy’s foot in a pan once. Similar sort of thing. Cold water, pot over a fire, his mouth clamped quiet with a hand and stilled with Ramsay’s broad arm across his chest, and after a while the lad had stopped struggling as he realised he wasn’t in any pain. But slowly – oh, so slowly – so _very_ slowly – he’d started to twist and writhe and snort desperate pants of air through his nostrils, snotting all over Ramsay’s fingers. And then came the screams; although muffled, they were still satisfying, and it had been such a shame when the boy passed out. 

Ramsay isn’t proud of that whole affair. Looking back, it had been a ridiculously inelegant thing to do. It was when he’d lived at the mill, which explains a lot. He’d since learned how to use pressure, and how to flay; both of which were vastly more refined in comparison.

And more effective.

“Ra – I mean, Master!” gasps Theon. _”Fuck…_

“More?”

“More! Just – just a little -- _ah, AH!_ Fuck, stop!”

Ramsay regards Theon critically. “Hmm. This is going to go further tonight. I know, because I want it to. I suspect you’ll need a word.”

“A – a word?”

 _”Fucking maidens orgy._ ” For a known skirt-chaser, he isn’t half green. “A _word_ ,” says Ramsay, punctuating each of his own words with a light tap of the blade up Theon’s face, “To make. Me stop. Hurting you. When it gets. Too. Much.” 

The knife rests on the bridge of Theon’s nose and he trembles like it’s a fucking manticore sat there. 

“It won’t get too much.”

“Oh yes. Yes it will.” Ramsay trails the knife right under Theon’s twitchy little eye, across his admittedly fantastic cheekbone and down his jawline to tap lightly on his chin. “It will get worse, because it seems you rather like being Reek. Ah -- _definitely_ , then.” Ramsay grinds his hips into Theon’s, who predictably groans like a bitch and wriggles back. _This rutting will not do,_ thinks Ramsay, and positively slams his hips forward into a thrust that makes Theon gasp. “You’ve got a fucking knife waving around near your jugular. Don’t fucking writhe about or else you’ll end yourself. And you’re far too valuable for that, aren’t you, Lord Theon?”

“Reek…” whispers Theon. Ever since Ramsay has taken to calling him that in front of others, asserting his claim to him, the little weirdo hasn’t wanted him to stop using it. The word’s grown fucking magical powers. Ramsay just has to snarl it through gritted teeth and Theon will hang his head, or drop to his knees, or flinch, or cower away. Damon, Alyn, Yellow Dick, the rest…they laugh, slap Ramsay across the shoulders, congratulating him on his fine bitch in heat. 

But between Ramsay and Reek always passes a fleeting moment of complete understanding. It’s Theon’s eyes that plead wordlessly with Ramsay, not Reek’s, and it’s Theon’s Ramsay, not Ramsay the Bastard of Bolton, who smirks back. _Yes, Reek. The more I say it, the more it stiffens that perverted cock of yours, and the harder I’m going to fuck you later._

Ramsay just chooses not to think about the fact that this has all happened within just a week, nor what that could possibly mean.

Theon’s desperate voice. “Please, master. My name is Reek…”

_It’s like he’s fucking obsessed._

“Reek,” agrees Ramsay in a whisper, into the curve behind Theon’s ear. He adds a ghost of his tongue when he feels Theon shiver against him. “Stinking, pathetic Reek.”

“Y – yes, master…”

“Tell me, Reek: why is your cock so very, _very_ hard?” Ramsay grins into Theon’s neck as he feels him slump a little. “You get off on calling me ‘master’, don’t you? Your cock is weeping at the thought of being owned by me; your whole body aches to be claimed.” Ramsay swirls his tongue in loops on Theon’s neck, taking extra care to breathe softly every time he shivers. Ramsay will bite Theon, of course, but not until he’s wound him up so much that even the smallest nip will make him scream. “You sicken me,” Ramsay hisses through his teeth, though he’s careful to keep his lips soft on Theon’s skin. Ramsay fucking loves this: the gentle cruelty, the loving terror. Ramsay takes his time inhaling a long, slow sniff. Gods, he can _smell_ the sex on him, leaking from his skin like blood. “You stink of _need_. You know I could take what I want from you, right now?”

Theon gasps a short little moan.

“I could fuck you everywhere, as many times as I want, and then you’d hang there until I come back and do it all over again. All you’ll feel are your aching holes and my hot seed staining your stinking, repugnant skin….” 

Ramsay sinks his teeth into Theon’s neck a lot sooner and a lot harder than he’d intended, and only realises he’s done it when Theon’s scream pierces his ears like a banshee and he feels Theon’s hips buck beneath him. Ramsay looks down: first, at the bulge in his own breeches, then at Theon’s, and then up at Theon in surprise. “Fuck me, Theon. After that first night, I knew we’d get on, but this is absurd.”

“Reek...” mutters Theon, and Ramsay sighs.

“For fuck’s sake,” he says, and reaches up to unhitch Theon from the cross. “Oh, don’t make that face at me. We’re not _finished_.” He rolls his eyes at Theon, whose expression is nothing short of horrified. “We won’t be finished for a long while yet. We have far too much to do, and far too many things I would like the guards outside to hear. But for that, I need you off this cross. Stretch and swing your arms; they’ll hurt when you take them down. And if you could moan in agony a little louder, that would be wonderful.”

Theon yelps like a kicked dog when he brings his arms to his sides, so Ramsay affords him a little appreciative nod.

“It really does fucking hurt!” hisses Theon.

“ _Then listen with your ears. Stretch. Your. Arms._ ” growls Ramsay, and then much louder, “You complain any more, you pathetic, disgusting little whore’s _cunt_ excuse for a man, and I’ll flay your Stark-sucking arsehole raw.”

Ramsay smirks at Theon who, after a flash of shock crosses his expression, fucking _licks his lips._

His mouth dropping open into a ridiculous gape, Ramsay fumbles over some burbled words but then (thank fuck) remembers who he is. He jabs Theon on the collarbone with both hands - _hard_ \- which topples him backwards onto Ramsay’s bed. In a second Ramsay is straddling him, his arse quite deliberately in Theon’s face, looping rope around Theon’s ankles to tie them to each bedpost. Theon squirms, a _lot_ , which only earns him a smack across the jaw when Ramsay spins to face him. 

“You don’t deserve a slap in the face. You’d only like it too much. And get those fucking hands by your sides. Don’t worry, pretty little squidling. I’ll tie them up, too. But first, sit up – good boy—”

Ramsay springs from Theon’s lap, stands at the end of the bed, facing his captive. He takes a moment to regard Theon from head to toe. His hair may be a fucking maiden’s but there’s lots of it to pull. A sharp jawline and the most fantastic collarbone Ramsay has ever seen. It’s so delicious to look at, all jutting and perfect, that Ramsay already feels the inevitable struggle in deciding what to do with it, how to mark it. All that unblemished flesh across Theon’s chest: his pectoral muscles, nicely defined but not so much they’re unsightly. Gods, he cannot _bear_ those veiny types. He’d flayed an Umber once and the whole thing was tiresome. Theon’s flesh is so…yielding. Bouncy. Pliable. _Can flesh be pliable?_ And his legs….good quads under those breeches. Probably from all the riding. Ramsay hadn’t seen much of them this past week, because mostly he enjoyed Theon from behind. He’d considered that view pretty fucking lovely at the time, but this one too has its merits. 

Ramsay skims up and down Theon’s body again and Theon whispers, “your eyes look…they’re fucking _glittering.,,_ ”

“Are you frightened, Reek?”

“No.”

“No, _what?_ ”

Theon hangs his head immediately. “No, m’lord.”

Ramsay tastes the delicious grin as it spreads across his face. “Well, Reek. _You should be._ ”

Theon groans, a sound that goes straight to Ramsay’s cock. It would be so _easy_ to have him now, tied to the bed by his ankles. In his arse like a cheap whore, or down his throat, and then across his face. Ramsay always wondered what it would be like to fuck a nice big wound, as well. Tied there like that it would be so easy to torture whatever useless shit Roose wanted Ramsay to glean from Theon’s pretty little head, and then Ramsay would see him off with a knife, drowning in his own blood. Isn’t that the way the Ironborn are supposed to go? Drowning? Theon ought be pleased with such a death. _So easy._

But Roose…nothing would be good enough for Roose.

Fucking _Roose._ Ramsay gives him about a week before he comes sniffing round the Dreadfort asking what has been done with the heir to the Iron Islands. And then – oh, of course, _then_ \- he’d take him away. _You’ve had your games with him, Ramsay. Enough is enough._ Roose takes everything and leaves nothing. Especially not to a bastard-born miller boy with _bad fucking blood_.

“I’m not frightened, master,” whispers Theon. He sits as upright as he can, arches his back, spreads his legs wider on the bed. He’s trying to whore himself out, please his lord - Ramsay can see that - and he doesn’t know why but it makes him feel sick. “See?”

“Shut the fuck up,” mutters Ramsay, irritated. He’d been enjoying this and then his father had to ruin it. What’s the point in playing with this toy if Roose will come and take it? He takes _everything,_ anything he wants. And Ramsay is supposed to let him? Let him steal Theon? Roose would probably fuck him too. He wouldn’t make a fuss; he’d just bend Theon over and grunt his way through it, then when he’d finished he’d look at Theon in disgust, push him aside, tell him to get dressed and send him back to Pyke. He wouldn’t even bother to make it any _good_. 

Ramsay glances down at his hand. He has squeezed his fist so tight his fingernails have drawn blood.

“Ramsay?” says Theon, and Ramsay backhands him across the face. 

“Never call me that!” snarls Ramsay, inches from Theon. Theon’s gasping, coughing, so Ramsay grabs him by the jaw and claps a hand across his mouth. “Never, ever call me that when _they_ are anywhere near.” He nods to the door, to the guards beyond it. “They cannot know who you still are. Nobody can. If Roose knows the heir of the Iron Islands still lives inside that pretty head of yours, we are fucked. He will take you from me. You are mine. You hear that? You belong to _me._ ”

Theon nods as best as he can in Ramsay’s grip.

Ramsay watches a little glob of sweat form on Theon’s smooth forehead. It swells from Theon’s skin like a tiny bead, and after an age of silence passes, it slides away to nothing. Ramsay’s voice is no more than a whisper. “There are stories of men who can live inside the bodies of animals. Skinchangers. Wargs. You have heard these stories?” 

Theon nods.

“They say that these men who spend too long inside their animals lose their grip on reality. They go fucking mad and can’t discern who is man and who is beast. Eventually they are consumed by it and lose all their senses. Have you heard this?”

Another nod.

“Theon Greyjoy was an enemy of the Boltons. Theon Greyjoy is dead. But Reek....Reek is loyal. Reek is good. Reek is alive. And Reek is _mine._ ” Slowly, Ramsay releases his grip on Theon’s jaw and runs his hand into Theon’s hair to stop it from trembling. “You must always be Reek, you understand me? Roose won’t want Reek. Reek is useless to the Iron Islands.”

“Reek…”

“But if you _dare_ become so much Reek that you lose Theon, I swear I will cut your cock off and send it to Balon fucking Greyjoy in a box. Understand? Because the whole of the Dreadfort will know Reek. They’ll smell Reek, push Reek about, and I’ll probably have to have my boys kick Reek, and degrade him, and Reek will sleep with the hounds and grovel like a—”

Theon moans gutterally and Ramsay stares in morbid fascination at the renewed tent in his breeches. “You sick fuck. Now is not the time. I’m trying to be serious.”

“—sorry.”

“The point is, everyone will know that Reek belongs to Ramsay Bolton, but by extension, that means Reek belongs to everyone. Their filthy eyes will look at Reek every day, judging the foul things we’re rumoured to get up to, wagering what it was that made Reek scream so fucking loud and so fucking long in the night. But _Theon_ , well…Theon is truly mine. And _only_ mine.” 

Ramsay can’t take his eyes off Theon’s lips, parted in awe at the things Ramsay’s saying, things Ramsay knows make Theon keen and moan, but things Ramsay never really intended to say, to anybody, at any time, anywhere. Ramsay runs his thumb over Theon’s bottom lip, barely nods permission before Theon is sucking it onto his tongue, sucking it _hard_ , whilst palming at his own cock with the heel of his hand. Ramsay can’t help but laugh. “Fuck me, Theon. I’ve just got about as close as I’ve ever been to saying – well, you know, and you’re there poking at your cock and slobbering all over my thumb like it’s the best you’ve ever had.”

Theon releases Ramsay’s thumb with a pop. “I can’t help it,” he says, and there’s something so bashful about his expression that Ramsay wants to kiss him and torture him all at once. Easy, easy prey, but such pretty prey. 

“Lie back,” Ramsay murmurs. “It’s time to see what Theon Greyjoy can really take.” He climbs astride Theon who moans at the contact, practically bucking Ramsay out of his lap, so Ramsay grabs Theon’s hair and twists his neck at such an angle he squeals. “Reek, Reek, it rhymes with _shriek_ ,” laughs Ramsay, as loudly as he can. “No grinding that slutty cock of yours, now. Not until I say. And no fucking hands. In fact—”

Ramsay leans backwards, yanking off one of the ties holding back a curtain on the bed. In moments, he has Theon’s wrists bound at his front and delights in sitting directly on them, putting pressure on Theon’s groin but trapping his hands from even remotely working his cock. He grins in delight at Theon’s pouty little lips. “Sorry, Ironborn. No playing for you.” 

“But – but _please_ …I need to…I _want_ ….”

Ramsay snorts. “You haven’t got the faintest idea what you want. Because you’re greedy, aren’t you? A greedy little squid. You don’t even know where to begin. There are probably things you don’t even know you like.”

“Do them to me. Do all of them. Show me.”

“What do you say?”

“ _Please._ ” The word falls out of Theon’s lips before Ramsay has even finished his sentence, and before the word has fallen out of Theon’s lips, Ramsay is thinking about those things, each and every one of them, each more disgusting and delicious than the last. And before he realises he’s doing it, Ramsay leans forward and kisses Theon on the lips, gently at first, but then harder, claiming his mouth with his tongue, and Theon’s hands wriggle underneath Ramsay’s groin – exactly where Ramsay can glean pleasure but Theon cannot – and he cannot help himself, he _bites_ Theon’s lower lip and sucks it into his mouth, tasting blood. “ _Fuck_ ,” moans Theon into Ramsay’s mouth.

“Tell me your name,” growls Ramsay through gritted teeth, holding Theon’s lip tightly in his mouth.

“Eeek,” says Theon.

Ramsay releases him, sits up, and slaps Theon in the face.

“No, it’s fucking not. Nice and quietly now: What. Is. Your. Name?”

Theon pauses, staring wildly at him, afraid. “R—”

“You have one more chance. One more. And I promise you now, get it wrong and you will _not_ like what I will do to you.”

“Reek,” says Theon without hesitation. 

Ramsay’s stomach flips and for a moment he struggles to catch his hitching breath. He fucking _wants it._ He wants every fucking horrible, painful, degrading thing that Ramsay can think of, done to him again and again and again, and at the end of it all he’ll ask for more, more, _more._ A strange, foreign picture flashes into Ramsay’s mind…taking Theon into his arms now, undoing his binds, carefully massaging the red welts, soothing them with his mouth. But as soon as the picture blooms it dies and fades, and Ramsay is Ramsay again, and Theon gave the _wrong answer_.

“You must remember your name,” Ramsay says, reaching behind him to take Theon’s index finger into his hand. It is slippery with sweat, but Ramsay can’t tell whose. “I warned you,” he whispers, and as Theon screams, Ramsay’s voice is louder. “Worthless cunt! Stinking, lowborn piece of _meat!_ Go on, Reek: beg me to take your finger off! Beg me!”

“Please! Fuck – no, please! Fuck, stop, stop!”

Ramsay stares hard into Theon’s eyes and sees the same word there: _stop_. He licks his teeth, winks at his Reek, a wordless victory. _I said you wouldn’t like it._

“What – what the fuck was that?”

Ramsay shrugs. “I can show you again if you like.”

“I – I don’t know—”

“Then tell me your fucking name. It’s not _difficult._ ”

Theon pauses, looks away. Ramsay frowns. _This is new._ He doesn’t look humiliated, or ashamed, or aroused, or begging. In fact, none of the general expressions Ramsay had come to be rather fond of over the last few days are even remotely evident on Theon’s face. No, this is something very different.

“I—” Theon begins.

“With words,” intones Ramsay.

“I don’t want that name,” says Theon in a voice so quiet Ramsay can barely hear him. “I don’t want that name, or anything that name brings with it. I want to forget. I want to forget about it all.” He looks up at Ramsay. “I want you to make me forget.” 

“Oh, I’ll make you forget,” says Ramsay quickly, because if he does not fill the silence he doesn’t know what will happen, or what he will do. “But I will make you forget when I want to, and how I want to. Because only I know what is best for you. I know how to make it good for you.” From his belt, Ramsay retrieves his bone handled flaying knife. It really is an exquisite thing: small enough to ensure he doesn’t cause himself an accidental injury, but sharp enough to do serious damage in skilled hands. “Do you like blood, _Theon Greyjoy_?”

Theon visibly winces. “I – I don’t know, m’lord.”

“I think you do know,” Ramsay says, rolling the hilt of his knife between his fingers, watching the edge of the blade flash in the candlelight. “I think you know very well, but you’re too fucking craven to say it. Too Ironborn. Too _Greyjoy._ You’ve beaten a whore before, I take it? _No?_ ” That’s a puzzle. “Strange. I thought everybody had beaten a whore at some point or another...” 

Theon hangs his head and says nothing.

“ _Ah._ ” Ramsay’s face is a slow smile of realisation. “You’re more into the whores bloodying you. Makes sense, given what I’ve seen of you these last days...”

“No – no, Master! Not whores, no—”

“Not whores? Then…who?” First fingers, and then Ramsay’s knife, skim to the left of Theon’s jaw, right by a vein. The blood thundering there is deafening. Thundering in fear. Underneath Ramsay’s groin, Theon twists and tugs in the most pathetic mummery of discomfort Ramsay has ever seen. “Oh, I understand now, Theon Greyjoy. I understand. No good would ever come of the heir to the Iron Islands asking a whore to strike him, to choke him, to cut him bloody. Because whores _speak_ , and the little squid doesn’t want his disgusting, perverse proclivities escaping to anybody’s ears, does he?” When Ramsay receives no answer, he presses the knife just a little harder, though not enough to draw any blood. “ _Doesn’t he?_ ”

“No, my Lord,” whispers Theon.

“So, was it Robb Stark or that bastard brother of his?”

“W – what?”

“You heard me. Or perhaps it was both at once. I bet you loved that, didn’t you? That would have really hurt you. Really bloodied you up. Both of them, reaming your arse raw.” 

“No! Master, no, I promise – they _never_ …”

Ramsay shifts his position on Theon’s bound hands. One of his fingers is grazing just the right point on the buried head of Ramsay’s cock and _fuck_ , it feels fantastic. 

“A promise is a dangerous thing, Reek. You can’t imagine what I do to people who break their promises.”

Theon squirms wildly. “They didn’t do anything! But—”

“But, Reek?”

“But – but I wanted them to.” Theon turns his head in shame (also, towards the fucking knife, _again_ ) so naturally he finds it yanked back and held tight, Ramsay’s eyes boring into his. “I’d – I’d handle myself in the night, master. I’d take my cock in my hand, and put my fingers in my arse and – and I’d imagine Robb burying his prick in my mouth, so deep I can’t breathe, and Jon fucking me bent over the feasting table at Winterfell, calling me a – a hostage, scraping his fingers down my back, leaving – leaving marks—” Theon’s words are devoured by a choked sob.

“Tears? Already?” A pool of malevolent excitement churns in Ramsay’s stomach, creeping up to rival a particularly good hunt. “We haven’t even started yet.”

“I can take it,” burbles Theon. “I can take it all.”

 _I bet you can,_ thinks Ramsay. What a fucking pretty picture Theon makes. Stretched out on a bed, tied, tears of need and fear on his cheeks, and Ramsay’s knife at his throat. Ramsay grinds into Theon’s tied hands, laughs breathily. “All right. _Reek._ Disgusting Reek. Oh yes. You like being called that, don’t you? You fucking get off on it. Reek, reek, it rhymes with freak.” Ramsay’s breath shudders. “Gods, your _throat_. So pale… fuck, want to grab your throat. Mmm. Wait, no.” Ramsay stops for a second, adjusts his grip and, frowning at Theon, discards the knife. That would have to come later, when Theon isn’t quite so…active. He would have to be trained to accept the knife, and to be still. But that will come in time. “Don’t lean into a knife like that, you stupid freak. Do you want me to fucking _kill_ you?”

Theon evidently doesn’t know how to answer that, because he responds with another wriggle.

“Lie there. I’m going to show you something good.” Ramsay’s hand closes around Theon’s throat and his eyes widen in fear. “Fuck’s sake, Theon. Trust me. I’m not going to murder you. Just take you to the point of passing out. Here. Feel it. Like it? Of course you do. You’d like anything I choose to do to you.” Ramsay tries to maintain a low, foreboding growl, but he can’t keep the tinge of wonder from his voice. “I could spit in your fucking mouth and you’d beg me for more, wouldn’t you?”

“M – Master,” says Theon. “You said – you called me –my – my _name_ —”

 _Shit._ Ramsay’s not usually this lax. But the whole thing is so fucking _disgusting_ that it is delicious, distracting. And it really is true: this Ironborn whore is getting off on every single second of this. Fucking madness. “Ah yes. Well done, Reek. You must remember your name. And here is your reward.” Ramsay tightens his grip on Theon’s throat, who groans, and goes ever so slightly limp. _Yes…_

“Pass out,” Ramsay hisses through his teeth. “Pass out, you cunt. Talk about fucking Robb Stark and his bastard to me? _Pass fucking out._ ”

And Theon does, and Ramsay’s cock is so hard it throbs. His sweaty hands fumble with the lacings of his breeches - how are both their breeches still on? And Ramsay's _boots_? He stifles a laugh, fumbles some more, and he wonders when he ever became so fucking pathetic. Whilst Theon is under, and burbling a bit, Ramsay drags the head of his cock over Theon’s lips. Theon hums “mmm,” and his tongue drunkenly snakes out to lap at the bead of pre-come there. Ramsay responds, naturally, by slapping Theon in the face with his cock and snorting a giggle when his Reek comes round, eyes staring and wild like a startled rabbit, gasping for air. “You whore,” Ramsay laughs. “You’re half-under and the first thing you do is try to lick my cock? Without _permission?_ ”

“Master – I couldn’t help it – I didn’t know—” 

Ramsay grabs those sallow cheeks with a pinched hand and opens Theon’s mouth gently. “I know you couldn’t help it. A disgusting creature like you would never have the balls to go near highborn cock without permission. Your lowborn urges are far too great. Good Reek,” he soothes, running his thumb across Theon’s lips. They’re a little uncomfortably dry and Ramsay finds himself thinking, _he likely needs water by now; I should probably give him some_ , and then he shakes the thought from his head. Instead, he leans over Theon – his Reek, his captive – and lets a long string of saliva fall from his mouth to Theon’s lips. Ramsay’s eyes widen as Theon laps gladly at the moisture. _This too, he likes?_ Ramsay tells himself Theon must be parched, else half-mad, because not even the most gaping, begging, mewling back-street Dornish whore would take this shit, never mind look as _wanting_ it. 

“Would you like… _permission_ , Reek?” whispers Ramsay. “Permission to suck your Lord’s cock?”

Theon’s terrified eyes find Ramsay’s, though there’s something about the fear in them that is strange. Something far removed from the mundane sort of terror that Ramsay is long accustomed to. The _oh-please-don’t-kill-me_ fear; the _my-lord-don’t-flay-my-hand_ fear. 

No… _no,_ this is something else.

This is fear that Ramsay’s offer is a trick. That Theon can’t dare allow himself to even _hope_ he’ll be given the mouthful - _then arseful, perhaps? Probably_ \- he so desires. Theon’s eyes dart from Ramsay’s cock back to his face again, pleading in terror, and Ramsay cannot _fucking_ help the wide, shit-eating grin that spreads across his face. He shakes his head in wonder, but manages almost immediately to disguise it as some grotesque shudder of impending torturous bloodlust. 

Thankfully. 

“Very well, Reek. No teeth now, else I’ll slap your fucking eyes from your head. Understand?”

Theon nods and opens his keen little mouth. To his credit, he hides his teeth away with his tongue and slobbers at Ramsay’s cock like a cheap whore. Ramsay coughs out an appreciative laugh and twists his fingers into Theon’s hair. How long can he keep his Reek on his cock, with his nose buried at Ramsay’s pubis, before he chokes? Certainly longer than a minute. Ramsay can see that. Maybe this slutty little freak would make two whole minutes. He might even vomit on Ramsay’s cock. _No matter. The Prince of the Iron Islands will just have to lick it all up._

_Fuck._

“Open your throat, Reek.” Ramsay captures Theon’s gaze and holds it. There’s a twinge of real fear there now. Ramsay can almost hear Theon’s thoughts. _But in that position, he could really choke me to death._ Ramsay had long learned to accept that somebody else’s fear made his cock swell harder than anything else, and it was seeming increasingly likely that in Theon, Ramsay had discovered someone whose _own_ fear made him feel the same way.

But he doesn’t want to actually _murder_ Theon. He is becoming quite accustomed to the whole situation…quite intrigued to know if there would ever be something that Theon would not want to do, or have done to him. Forced upon him. 

“Reek,” Ramsay whispers. “If I wanted to kill you, sweetling, I could have done that with my hands on your throat. Remember?” He moves his grip from Theon’s cheeks to his neck, gives it a little squeeze. Theon makes a gurgling sound around Ramsay’s cock, trying to take it as deep as he can, and Ramsay fucking _moans_ , taken by surprise at the sensation and Theon’s utter, wanton depravity. “You sick, sick man.”

Theon moans a long, desperate concurrence. 

But Ramsay knows Theon’s fear is too great to stop him struggling, and he can tell Theon so _wants_ to please, so Ramsay leans over his Reek, his breath on his ear. “Trust me, you dolt,” he whispers, kisses him softly on the cheek. Then, towering above him, louder, adds, “I told you to open your throat, you little bitch. Let me in. _All the way in, Reek_. Or I’ll cut your neck and you’ll drown in your blood. I’ll get a loose throat then, won’t I?”

“Ngh,” gurgles Theon, his eyes filling with tears. 

Ramsay’s hand returns to Theon’s cheeks, squeezes them open further and his cock slides all the way down Theon’s throat. Ramsay almost gasps in shock. “You _relax_ your throat at a threat like that?”

Theon whimpers, thrashes about on the bed.

“What the fuck are you doing, you stupid cunt? You’ll choke _yourself_ if you wriggle like that…” And then Ramsay looks over his shoulder, where Theon’s bound hands are fumbling stupidly, desperately, at the quite frankly sizeable mound in his breeches, a tiny wet patch just visible on the fabric.

In Ramsay’s head, he allows only a small, satisfied grunt to escape him because he knows Theon does not deserve the reward of his pleasure yet. But what comes out of his mouth is a long, drawn-out, _”Fuuuuuuuck,”_ at the way Theon keens and moans and cries and gets harder and harder at the talk of _knives_ and _blood_ and all those fucking things that Ramsay needs to feel _alive_ , and he knows he’s losing control but the way Theon’s throat muscles are contracting around the head of Ramsay’s cock is so fucking good that even Roose fucking Bolton himself, the limp-dicked, dead-eyed, humourless, sexless cunt wouldn’t be able to silence himself. 

Ramsay grunts as he imagines sliding his cock into Roose’s throat, gripping him by the jaw so tightly it will leave bruises, and he’d snarl, _”look at me, father!”_ and he fucking would as well, he’d _have to_ ; he’d stare up at Ramsay with those glassy, tiny little eyes, cold as the fucking Dreadfort itself. Those eyes that mourn perfect, _perfect_ Domeric, and say _bad blood_ and _you’re not a Bolton, you are a Snow_ …

Ramsay forces his cock as deep as it will go and holds it there. One hand is on the back of a neck, the other wound in a handful of hair in a punishing twist. Ramsay throws his head back, feeling every contortion, every cough. He will fucking drown Roose Bolton here. He will listen to every last gurgle, every last plead. And he will do nothing but hold his cock so far down his throat that he’ll feel him go limp around him, and slide to the floor, and Ramsay would smash his Lord Father’s fucking head in on the flagstones and watch his come splatter against the blood.

Theon squeals as much as Ramsay’s cock allows, and Ramsay looks down and notices in a strange, detached way that Theon has gone a bit of a funny colour. And by _a bit_ , he has gone bright puce, and he is struggling around like a dying fish gasping for air, and _shit shit shit_ , he may actually _be_ dying…

Ramsay releases Theon’s hair, shoves him backwards onto the bed where he falls with a wailing groan. His cock springs free of Theon’s mouth, drenched in spit and phlegm and a tiny streak of blood. Heart pounding, Ramsay grabs the side of Theon’s face with a sweat-slicked palm. 

_”Fuck. FUCK.”_

Theon coughs out a wet slap of Gods-know-what that sticks to the side of his face. “Master,” he tries to say.

“Theon. None of this _Master_ shit. Are you alive? I could have fucking….shit.”

And then - _then_ \- Theon fucking _laughs._

“What the fuck are you laughing at? You’re half fucking _dead_!” Ramsay runs his hand from Theon’s cheek across his neck, feeling for his pulse, brushing his hair back from his forehead, yet Theon continues to laugh, a rasping, rattling sound. “Theon. Stop fucking laughing, you silly cunt. You – I mean, you gave me a fright—”

“ _You_ had a fright?” Theon coughs. “I’d have come in my breeches if you carried on doing that.”

Ramsay, for a moment, is utterly lost for words.

And then Theon adds, “it was when you called me Roose. That was nearly it for me this evening.”

“You’re fucking sick,” murmurs Ramsay. This time he doesn’t even try to keep the awe from his tone. And then he adds with a groan, “Shit. _Roose._ ” 

“And I thought I was the one with daddy issues.”

The blood is returning to Ramsay’s head now; his racing heart is settling, the pounding in his ears softening to a low, rhythmic thud. He takes a long, deep breath, welcoming the cool air into his tight chest. Everything is safe. Nobody has died. 

Yet.

Ramsay pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is why, Theon, you need a word.” 

“A word.” Theon’s smirk is absurdly punchable. “And what word could I have possibly said with your cock buried to the hilt in my throat?”

“I don’t fucking know, do I?!”

“I think it’s _you_ who needs a word.” Theon wiggles his fingers in his bounds. “You’re afraid you’ll go too far and kill me.”

A flush of heat strangles Ramsay at his throat. Horrible, treacherous, blushing heat. “I – I don’t -- _fucking_ \--”

“Shh. Listen. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust you, would I? This – this _thing_. I’ve never – I mean – oh, _fuck_.”

The pounding is back in Ramsay’s ears and chest and head and stomach and he can’t seem to slow it. He peels his tongue from the roof of his mouth, as dry as fucking Dorne. “Do you mean it?”

“Course I mean it—”

“Specifically, Theon. About trusting me.”

Theon’s eyes – so green, those eyes; green like the sea, Ramsay supposes – stare into his and for the first time in his life after – after before, Ramsay sees nothing there but clear, unwavering truth. “I trust you.”

Ramsay kisses him then, because if he didn’t, he feels as though he may burst out of himself and explode through the Dreadfort like wildfire. Theon groans into the kiss, arching his back, hungering for more, which Ramsay yearns to give him…to give him everything, to taste every part, to claim every part. And then Ramsay’s hands are on Theon’s laces and Theon is moaning _yes, yes Master, please_ , his bound wrists thrown behind his head, his beautiful fucking hair framing his perfect face. 

Ramsay says it once more – says it because he can barely believe it, and says it because he needs it – a breathless, desperate plea: “Trust me?”

And Theon nods.

Ramsay spits into his cupped hand and wipes a lascivious slurp up Theon’s arse and over his balls. “You like that?” There’s still a tremble in his voice, Ramsay can hear it, but for the most part he’s back in character. Theon can tell too, as he’s cowering slightly again, showing with his body that he wants Ramsay to do with it anything he will…showing that trust in his submission. “Good boy. Good Reek.”

_”Yes…”_

A second palm of spit fists over Ramsay’s cock and then he’s pushing inside, one hand helping Theon’s arse open up around his prick, the other running up and down Theon’s chest, pulling at his nipples, twisting into his hair, grabbing at his jaw. _Were I a fucking kraken right now_ , Ramsay thinks. _I want to touch him everywhere._

It’s the first time they’ve fucked like this. Not bound, of course – that had been standard fare until now – but rather chest to chest, Theon on his back and Ramsay above him, able to drink in every inch of that perfect, unspoiled skin. Ramsay’s doing his best to go slow, but the way Theon’s stretching his neck and arching his back is making it pretty fucking difficult. Ramsay closes a hand around Theon’s throat and he whimpers. The sound nearly makes Ramsay pull away but he doesn’t, he fights through the urge, the terror. _Trust me._

“’s good,” moans Theon. “Don’t stop.”

Ramsay rolls his hips faster, deeper. His hands grasp Theon’s waist and Ramsay pulls him tight down onto his cock, drawing from Theon a guttural roar which Ramsay knows will have the guards outside rolling their eyes. Yes, _yes._ That’s it, good Reek. _Loud_ Reek. Theon Greyjoy is dead. And, of course, what is dead may never die. _Theon Greyjoy is mine._ Forever.

“Talk – to me—” moans Theon.

“What would you do if I came now?” Ramsay’s voice is his own again. The Bastard of Bolton. “Spilled my seed up your little cunt and left you here to pull yourself off? You’d love that. Come on, sweetling. Spread your dirty legs a bit more.” And then Ramsay’s hands are at Theon’s wrists, loosening his bindings. At once, Theon’s hands are all over Ramsay’s body, in his hair, at his arse pulling him deeper into Theon’s, on his hips…and Ramsay shakes away his shudder because that’s what Theon needs. “No, you impudent little brat. I released you to make it better for _me._ Hold your arse open. Beg. Fucking beg or else. Beg!”

“Harder, m’lord! Harder!”

At once, Ramsay stills his hips. Theon positively _wails._ “Sorry?” Ramsay cups a hand to his ear. “You’re _telling_ me to fuck you harder?”

“No! Not telling, master. Asking!”

“’ _Please, fuck me harder, master._ That’s what you should say. But you do not.’” Ramsay smirks. “I think you’re _telling,_ Reek…”

“No – I promise—”

“Then spread your fucking legs like I told you to, you disgusting creature, and ask nicely.”

Theon – Reek – trembles beneath him and says, “Please. Fuck me.”

“Please who?”

“My – my lord, just—”

Ramsay slaps Theon so hard that he gasps. He cries, whinges, nuzzles into the furs, twists, moans, until Ramsay pulls him up into his lap by the hair, impaled on his cock, and allows Theon a soft kiss on his cheek. “Theon,” grins Ramsay, his wormy lips at Theon’s ear, “be good. Tell me. Please….who?”

“Oh, you bastard,” mutters Theon, though he is smiling too. “Please, Lord Bolton.”

_”Good boy.”_

And then Ramsay lets Theon have it, because he is a benevolent master, and because truth be told, his balls are in absolute agony and unless his prick grants them their release near as damned immediately, the whole package will probably fall off and then how in the seven kingdoms could he make his Reek scream the castle down? 

Ramsay fucks into Theon so hard and so fast that Theon starts to burble, words blurring like _yes_ and _fuck_ and _master_ until it all runs into one long screeching moan, and Theon, bouncing lewdly on Ramsay’s cock, sprays his seed in quite a majestic splatter up his chest, across Ramsay’s, onto Ramsay’s lips, into the tips of Theon’s hair. 

Ramsay gasps and is coming, coming, _coming_ with a ferocity he’d never known, not even from before, and he can’t even imagine a world where he isn’t buried in a hole belonging to Theon Greyjoy, abusing it, soothing it, _owning it._.

Theon collapses backwards and Ramsay follows, an undignified heap of come and sweat. They lie there for a moment, gasping like fish, before Theon moans and says, "my ankles, Ramsay. Could you - they're fucking agony."

Grinning, Ramsay pulls Theon's ankles free and follows by kicking his own boots off, wriggling out of the breeches awkwardly gathered at his shins, and pulling Theon's off in a heap on the floor. "Sorry," he grins sheepishly. "I just needed to get it in. Your fault. You'd wound me up." A giggle spurts from Ramsay’s mouth before he can stop it. “You learn your sex noises from the harpies you fuck at sea, Greyjoy?”

“At least I didn’t moan my own father’s name with my cock buried in your throat.”

“You’ll be lucky to have your cock anywhere near my throat, sweetling,” murmurs Ramsay, pulling Theon to his chest. “You’ll have to work exceptionally hard for that.”

“Are you…cuddling me, Lord Bolton?”

Ramsay shrugs. “If that’s what this is. I prefer to think of it as smearing your seed about a little more. After all, you shan’t be washing yourself for a few days, _Reek._ ”

“Mmmm,” murmurs Theon. “Greyjoy, Bolton, sweetling, squidling, Lord, Ramsay, Theon, Reek. All these names. I fear I will forget them.”

A deep chuckle tremors through Ramsay’s chest. Theon folds himself in closer, wraps a thigh over Ramsay’s. “I fear you will not. I’ll fuck them into you, Thee.”

Theon props himself up onto an elbow and stares at him. Ramsay could laugh at his bewildered expression, but he does not. He finds it impossibly, disgustingly, terrifyingly sweet. 

“Ram! Since when _the fuck_ have you ever called me ‘Thee’?”


End file.
